


to hear your voice, to see your face (you are a guest here now)

by elsinorerose



Series: out here in the dark [4]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Horseback Riding, I'm so sorry, Mentions of the rest of the Nein, References to past trauma, dumb pets being dumb, i mean this is a fic featuring caleb widogast do i really need to tag angst and trauma, no happiness for you!!!, we all know what's going on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 22:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18020012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsinorerose/pseuds/elsinorerose
Summary: "There are some thoughts he does not let himself think.I am going to leave these people to get my parents backis one. So isI could never leave these people.So isI can’t decide, and that is killing me.So isI will have to decide one day.Until lately those have been the main ones."





	to hear your voice, to see your face (you are a guest here now)

**Author's Note:**

> Set about two weeks after the previous work. Title from "How" by Regina Spektor. Thanks to [bringyouhometoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bringyouhometoo), my resident Zemnian expert, and NefariousMoss, my glorious beta-reader, for their help.

There are some thoughts he does not let himself think.

_I am going to leave these people to get my parents back_ is one. So is _I could never leave these people._ So is _I can’t decide, and that is killing me._ So is _I will have to decide one day._

Until lately those have been the main ones.

Caleb shrugs into his coat, coils his scarf around his neck, and mutters a quick cantrip to clean his face and freshen the sleep out of his eyes. Around him the Nein are cleaning up the remains of breakfast and getting ready for another day's journey. The sight of them — of Fjord and Yasha trading jokes, Beau idly tossing her throwing stars in the air and catching them, Nott trying to teach Caduceus how to do a handstand for some reason — warms Caleb to his core against the brisk midwinter morning. Even Frumpkin appears to have caught an unusual spirit of camaraderie: he is yawning and stretching out his paws lazily from where he has slept the whole night curled up with Nugget the blink dog.

And Jester — where is Jester? She's wandered from camp, something she's taken to doing more and more these days. Caleb runs his hands through his hair a few times and surveys the mist-wreathed copse of bare, huddled trees that has been their only shelter for the night.

Ah. She is with the horses. Well, that is to be expected — she has become very fond of them lately, ever since they had to ditch their cart in this untamed, hilly country and take to riding. Caleb grins when he sees several pink and blue ribbons tied into the chestnut's mane. Jester is stroking its nose and whispering conspiratorily to it, glancing up now and then to see how her friends are getting along — and now she meets Caleb's eyes, and she _winks._

_Scheisse._

It's far too early in the day for Caleb to deal with a winking Jester. Not since — well. That is another one of those thoughts, isn't it. The ones he isn't allowed to have.

When he was much younger, it was someone else telling him what he was and wasn't permitted to think. These days, it is up to Caleb to monitor himself. As always, it's for his own good, isn't it. Certain ideas, certain _desires,_ are dangerous, and always have been, no matter whether he's looking behind or ahead. Destroying a journal doesn't change that. Recognizing a look in someone's eyes over and over again recently doesn't change that, even if it makes his breath stop in his throat every time.

_You must guard your mind._

Old words in someone else's voice, slithering out of the past, sending a shiver up his spine — but true words. He _must_ guard his mind.

There are more forbidden thoughts than he is prepared to admit.

"Nott!" Jester is calling. "You ride with Fjord today, I'm going to ride with Caleb. We have _spellcasting stuff_ to discuss."

Oh, no. No, this is nonsense. Caleb desperately tries to catch Nott's eyes, makes a frantic _ABORT_ gesture across his throat with one hand when he succeeds. Nott only stares at him, eyebrows raised. Well, of course, why wouldn't Caleb want to share a horse with Jester, his _dear friend,_ for _eight hours._ There's nothing _unusual_ in that.

"Come onnnnnn, Caleb." Jester's voice is full of sugar and innocence. "You promised to teach me that cantrip!"

Gods above, she will be the end of him, one way or another. Caleb glares at Nott one more time before silently admitting defeat. "Put up a real good fight there too, didn't you, _arschloch,"_ he mutters under his breath, heading towards the horses with his hands shoved into his pockets. Frumpkin follows, overtaking him to wrap once, twice around Jester's ankles, purring, and then sit down primly just out of reach of the horse's hooves.

Jester is grinning. "Good morning, Caleb."

_Sigh._ "Good morning, Jester," he returns evenly, permitting himself a small smile.

"Ready to hit the road?"

"I am excited to hear about this cantrip," Caleb replies, thrusting one foot into a stirrup and swinging himself up into the saddle before Jester can beat him to it, "the one that is somehow identical for both arcane and divine casters."

This earns him a pout from Jester, which is…certainly something, seen from this unfamiliar vantage point above her, those dark eyes twinkling up at him through their lashes. Her breath is a white haze in the winter air. "Has anybody ever told you you can be a real spoilsport?"

"That is the understatement of the year." He's still smiling, _verdammt._ "Get up here, we're going to fall behind."

It's true, the others are already leaving, Yasha and Beau snug together on their piebald, Nott perched in front of Fjord on the mare, Caduceus swaying ever so slightly with the gentle gait of his favorite shaggy bay. With no real road in these parts, the sturdy northern horses are more valuable than a dozen enchanted carts. Some of them are still getting used to riding after so long without practice, however. Jester is somewhat unsteady as she clambers up behind Caleb, wrapping her arms around his waist for balance.

At least she will be behind him, he thinks — then he feels the unmistakeable press of her breasts against the back of his coat through that soft wool dress of hers, and _maybe this wasn't such a good idea._

With an uneasy cough, he spurs the horse ahead. The morning sun glints off one of the shinier ribbons braided into its mane. "What is this one's name again?" he asks with a pat to its neck, partly to fill the silence and partly to buy a little time to focus his very stupid brain on the real world right now.

"This is _Cinnamon,_ Caleb — "

"Cinnamon, yes, right." As if he would forget. "You know it's a little concerning that you named all of our horses after food."

"Well, our first horses were all named after toilets," she reminds him, "so it's got to be a little better, right?"

He hasn't thought that far back in ages. "That was really a long time ago, wasn't it," he wonders aloud.

Jester hums comfortably. "We barely knew each other."

There isn't anything he can say to that if he wants to keep his defenses up, so Caleb settles for silence, letting Cinnamon follow at an easy pace behind the rest of their party. A glance back to catch a glimpse of his cat reveals that Frumpkin is now trotting behind them in step with Nugget, who playfully nips at his tail every so often, earning nothing more than  a lazy swat in the ears in return. Caleb wonders when the two of them started getting so familiar with each other. He has a feeling he might be able to guess.

“This is a lot better with our clothes on," Jester says slyly against his back.

He lets out his breath in a sharp exhale, heat prickling up his neck, and bites back a smile. “I was actually sort of hoping we would never, ever talk about that.”

"Ha." She digs his chin into his shoulder, and he knows her eyes must be sparkling. “You know if we hadn’t done that, we could have frozen to death. Spoon or die.”

"Spoon or —" An involuntary chuckle escapes Caleb's lips. “I suppose that…was the idea.”

If he told her the truth, that the memory of that night in the ogre pit a fortnight ago — of pain, cold, worry slowly twisting itself into fear in his belly, the softness of her skin, the press of her body against his — of certain other concerns as well — has stayed with him for weeks, its shadow cast over his daydreams and his real dreams and the long hours of night watch —

_Nein._ Caleb shakes his head. _You must guard your mind, Widogast._

He is pulled from this gravel-ridden, downward slope of reflection by Jester's arms tightening around him. “I was really worried about you that night," she murmurs.

“Oh." Jester's voice is beginning to carry something low, something close, and it is suddenly important that Caleb keeps this conversation _above water._ "Well. I was okay," he says lamely, as casually as he can with her arms wrapped around his waist and her head resting gently on the back of his shoulder.

“You weren’t okay." As though she would buy that for a second. "You were in really bad shape, Caleb. I thought you might not make it."

He knows the feeling. “ _Ende gut, alles gut_ — all’s well that ends well, ja?”

“I thought maybe that we were going to have to use Caduceus's spell and resurrect you."

“That would certainly have been interesting," he says lightly. "I’ve never been dead before.”

The words are out of his mouth before he fully realizes what he's just said, and he winces — well done, really good — not that Jester will reproach him, or even acknowledge it, of course, but all the same. They don't talk about her death. He asked her once, weeks ago, and has regretted it ever since. He remembers watching her try to hide the shadows that filled her eyes. This is not something he should make her have to relive again, even in passing.

But if she is hurt, or troubled, she doesn't let on. “It would have been awful," is all she says, giving him a squeeze.

Right. "I wonder if — "

“I don’t think you know how important you are. To our family.”

_Oh, Jester,_ he thinks, a familiar warmth constricting his heart. She thinks he doesn't know? Hasn't noticed their love for him, the one thing that has been dragging him back, often kicking and screaming, from every sheer drop in the darkness that he has ever crawled towards? Hasn't felt, for the past year or more, the blazing heat of their friendship coming close, so close, to overwhelming the fires of his own past? Does she think he doesn't remember —

Caleb clears his throat, one hand drifting unconsciously to the center of his chest before he can stop it. “I know you all would have brought me back just fine." _Tret wasser, Widogast, lass sie nichts wissen._ He lowers his hand. _Guard your mind._ "I bet Nott would make a good speech, too.”

“Stop it.” Jester gives him another squeeze.

“No, it would be good. She’d probably — what was the term Caduceus used, an offering? She’d probably offer the last bit of her bacon. I’m very important after all.”

Jester giggles. “You are worth your weight in bacon.”

“That is high praise."

"Do you think Beau would give you that keg of Baumbach _trost_ we stole last week?"

"I think that Beauregard would probably just give me a punch in the face.”

"The Wildmother might have some opinions about whether or not that counts," teases Jester.

"Well, if anyone could punch a dead person back to life, it would be Beau."

“Ha.”

By now, following Caduceus in the lead, their path has turned eastwards, and Caleb has to raise a hand to shield his eyes, trusting in Cinnamon to keep up with the other horses ahead of them. Nugget has chased Frumpkin up the line to Fjord and Nott. The pair of them are loudly attempting to sing a drinking song, around interruptions from Beau, who knows the _correct_ words, you guys, what is this shit, how can you not know the words to _Whiskey in the Flagon,_ oh my god…

Caleb shouldn’t, really, he knows it’s crossing the line from friendly banter to flirting, but he can’t help it. “What would you give me?”

“What, if you were _dead?”_

“Yeah, what would you offer?”

Jester is silent for a moment. “I don’t really want to think about that, Caleb,” she says softly at last.

A little stab of warmth constricts his heart. “Ah, you are sweet,” he murmurs, half to himself, unable to keep the thought from spilling from his lips. Sweet, and good, and too smart, surely, to fall for someone with this much blood and dirt and ash on his hands and in his soul. _You must guard your —_ but he has been careful, hasn't he? Has been careful for more than a year, hasn't he? And now it hardly matters, does it, because his time is running out, and soon they will all be safe, and he will never have to be careful again.

Jester’s voice so soft he can barely hear it even against his shoulder. “I would give anything.”

Grief, and guilt, and something else, something old and near-forgotten and searing like lightning, burst over him and keep Caleb from speaking. He shuts his eyes tight and tries to regulate his breathing. _Lass sie nichts wissen._ Don't let her know.

“I’d give whatever I needed to give. To bring you back. Here. With — with us.”

He can’t turn around and kiss her, for so many, many reasons, but he can take her hand, like a dear friend, and thread his fingers through hers, and lift them up to press his lips to the back of her knuckles. “I’ll just never die then.”

“Is that a promise?"

His chest aches. “Yeah, it’s a promise. Hold me to it, ja?”

Jester's thumb strokes his, until he forces himself to let go of her, turning his attention abruptly and deliberately to the reins, to guiding their horse around some invisible obstacle, to realizing suddenly that they're lagging behind the rest of the group and should really catch up. The lie is like sulfur in his throat, hot and corrosive, but he can't take it back now. She is too happy, already, he is sure, plotting the next way to catch him off his guard with a prank or a dirty joke or just a _look,_ now that she knows that even her eyes are enough to make him blush. Good, he thinks; good that she is distracted, good that she is thinking ahead.

Once again his hand moves to the center of his chest, feeling that empty space where his protective amulet has been missing since the night the ogres stripped him of everything. No, there are some thoughts he will not let himself think.

He is running out of time.

_fin_


End file.
